


Three Times That Miraak Saw Azura

by muldezgron



Series: To Know and Be Known [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, Azura is a Good Egg, Daedra (Elder Scrolls), Daedric Princes (Elder Scrolls), Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind References, Elder Scrolls Lore, Elder Scrolls Online Revised Lore, F/M, Horror Elements, Isolation, Lightly Implied Morian Zenas/Seif-ij Hidja, Panic Attacks, Protectiveness, Realm of Apocrypha (Elder Scrolls), Seekers Are Actually Creepy, Something Bad May Have Happened To A Child, e.g. 2E rather than 3E Morian Zenas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muldezgron/pseuds/muldezgron
Summary: According to some traditions, Azura is an ally of Hermaeus Mora, and a frequent visitor to the realm of Apocrypha. Surely, then, over the course of four eras without escape, Miraak would have seen her at least once.This is the story of three times that Miraak saw Azura, and the things that happened in-between.(Part of a series, but actually standalone. See notes for details.)
Relationships: Miraak & Azura, Miraak & Morian Zenas, Morian Zenas/Alfidia Lupus
Series: To Know and Be Known [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980157
Kudos: 25





	Three Times That Miraak Saw Azura

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this while waiting for beta feedback from North on _Ingenious Gentlemen_. It's also one of the drafts I wasn't able to work on during the two day power outage that led to _Descent_ happening. In that sense it's a prequel, hence adding it to the same series, but it's absolutely not necessary to have read _Descent_ or _The One with the Spear Hole in it_ to know what's going on.

Apocrypha is ever changing, he quickly discovered. He had woken up in a dense forest, amidst massive pines and firs that must have been full grown when the forests of Atmorasewuth were saplings. He winced as he pushed himself to sit upright—partly from his wounds, but also from the needles stabbing through his gloves and the seat of his pants. Every needle itself a story, a secret whispered from mother to daughter, shaman to initiate, priest to acolyte, the breath of the Ehlnofey when neither man nor mer walked the face of Nirn.

He could see shadows moving between the trees in the distance, leaping across the canopy above him, but never enough to make out details with men’s eyes. Still, this was not the movement of a predator: he was not being hunted. But he knew, he was To Know, that every breath that passed his lips was noted. The scent of his sweat marked each step he took. Every blink of his eyes carved notches of dovahzul into the bark far above him.

By the time the sharpness had faded to the itch of dry scabs, the carpet of needles had become rounded hills of sand and rock. Bright spires of coral had replaced the trees. The sky shimmered, the sun seeming to break into pieces and reform at random, and it was not until he approached a rippling forest of giant kelp that it occurred to him why.

How was he breathing? _Was_ he breathing? As absurd as it was, he was hit with a wave of panic at the thought that he was about to drown.

As if signaling to him, he caught a glimpse of something shining between the swaying stalks. He pushed forward, swatting with his arms as leaves covered in Daedric letters brushed across him and clung to his mask.

A woman stood in a clearing with her back to him, long hair and skirt billowing out like drops of milk in clear water. Her golden-skinned arms stretched out to each side, hands clasped around the two ends of a great sheaf, its rows of script glowing before her unseen face.

Head raised and shoulders back, he advanced against the current with his robes fluttering around him. She took no notice of him. He cleared his throat, or attempted to, but what came out of his mouth was an undignified stream of bubbles, escaping his mask through its eye holes.

He took a moment to steel himself, to remind himself who he was, and let out a great Shout.

At this, she finally turned. The first thing he noticed: she had the pointed ears of an elf, and eyes that sparkled like the stars themselves. The second thing he noticed: her skirt was not, in fact, the lower part of a dress. It was her _only_ article of clothing.

 _Stand straight,_ he commanded himself. _Maintain eye-contact. This is a realm of demons: show no weakness._

“Ah, yes,” she said, looking down at him with a wry smile. “The Mortal with a dragon’s soul. I was wondering when I would see you wandering about. What was your name, again?”

“I am Miraak, _sonaak_ and _dovahkiin_ ,” he said, speaking with all his strength. “Slayer of dragons, and champion of Herma-Mora.”

Her amusement only seemed to grow. “You seem very proud of this, Mortal. Do you not know that the dragons are long gone from your land?”

Despite his best efforts, Miraak’s posture melted in confusion. “Gone? That cannot be possible.”

Her only response was a flick of her left wrist, which somehow brought another sheaf up, flowing before his face. A section of words were highlighted—in Ayleidoon, a language he could barely speak, let alone read, but he could make out transcriptions of familiar names: Hakon, Felldir, Gormlaith, Alduin.

He could feel his face burning with humiliation.

“Who are you?” Miraak demanded, slapping the kelp away. “What are you that you address me as ‘Mortal’?”

She laughed, her eyes sparkling even more brightly than before. “I am your patron’s peer, Mortal—Azura of the Crimson Gate, Queen of Dawn and Dusk.”

“My patron’s peer?” He did not bother to mask the surprise in his voice.

“Ah, you are a Nord, aren’t you,” she said, not really a question as much as a musing. “You know of Mora, and perhaps one other, but you remain ignorant of the rest.” She turned back to her reading. “Then know this, Mortal: you serve but one of many, and what he and Fate have in store for you is yet to be decided.”

He stood there silently for what felt like an age, then wandered back into the thickest part of the kelp simply absorbing this inconceivable concept: the idea that Herma-Mora could be only one among many—that Herma-Mora could have _peers_.

⁂

The instant he became comfortable with Ayleidoon, it felt as though the door opened on a great warehouse of information on the nature of demons—of _Daedra_ —that he had never known. Finally he knew who Azura was. He now knew of Herma-Mora’s sibling, the webspinner Mephala, and of the destroyer, Mehrunes Dagon. He read of ill-fated bargains made with Clavicus Vile, of the cold light of Merid-Nunda at war with stone-fire Mola Gbal, of Vaermina and Namira winding through the dreams and waking hours of men and mer like a pair of serpents through the orbits of a skull.

And then, just as suddenly as the door had opened, it slammed shut. New material in Ayleidoon went from nearly ubiquitous to a scroll here and there. When the sea levels began to lower and the great spires transformed into shelves of books with spines and pages, the Ayleids had faded away, now only mentioned occasionally in works in other languages that he would have to learn as well.

Still, it was a decent starting place for the other mer tongues. Enough words were the same or similar in Altmeris and Chimeris that he could stumble through. It was no help with Dwemeris. Whatever the dwarves had done to their language, it no longer resembled any other. He wasn't even sure if it had vowels, or if they had found a way to speak a language entirely comprised of teeth gnashing and grinding.

Soon, there were no new works in Dwemeris, either.

Miraak recognized her immediately when he saw Azura again. Her shape was the same; the way she stood was the same; the profile of her face was unmistakable. Yet the golden skin was now the color of smoke. Her dress was a shimmering black, this time with a loose bodice. Her hair was partially drawn back, with a crown of white roses on her head. The thorns were not trimmed away, and her expression was joyless. As Azura read, the light in her crimson eyes was less a sparkle and more a glint reflecting off the tip of a sharp needle.

Everything in her manner said not to approach. He approached anyway. She turned the page of her book, ignoring him.

Miraak turned to the pillar, tracing gloved fingers along unlabeled spines. Finding anything, he had begun to realize, had very little to do with method. It was entirely borne from will—either the will of the seeker, or the will of Mora himself.

Something had happened. Something had changed. If his will was strong enough…

His finger caught on the edge of a book. Perhaps coincidence. Perhaps not. He pulled it out and flipped it open at random.

It seemed to be a journal, hastily written in a language he did not recognize. In the middle of the indecipherable passage laid an oasis of readability: a Skaldic song-chant transcribed using Falmer script.

> A thousand years or more shall pass  
>  Of secrets whispered near and far:  
>  Through ash and smoke we come to sing  
>  The tale of Elf King Nerevar.
> 
> When Dwarf-Orc King Dumalacath  
>  Refused to see things as they are,  
>  In pride he sacrificed the peace  
>  With his beloved Nerevar.
> 
> High King Wulfharth rose from ash:  
>  Ysmir, the tortured avatar!  
>  The Heart of Shor cried out to him,  
>  And so he marched on Nerevar.
> 
> Beneath the Mountain, Kagrenac  
>  Reached out to touch the Walking Star,  
>  And vanished like a fading mist  
>  Before the eyes of Nerevar.
> 
> Three allies stand, and yet betray;  
>  One friend survives, but gone too far.  
>  All things must shatter and reform  
>  As pyre-risen Nerevar.
> 
> When oozing blood and gaping wounds  
>  Have faded to an aching scar,  
>  The House Unmourned will speak in dreams.  
>  The Heart still beats for Nerevar.

He tried to imagine what kind of Nord would write with Falmer script, and came up blank. He also realized he had no way to know if this was fantasy or history, or something in-between. There was only one thing he could reasonably take away as important and likely relevant.

“Who is Nerevar?” asked Miraak, turning back towards Azura.

Her expression remained grim, and she did not look up from her book. “You know nothing of what has transpired,” she said.

“I know that I know nothing,” he agreed, “and that is why I ask. It seems better to acknowledge that nothing and fill the hole than to stare down it in fear.” Miraak kept to himself the small puff of pride that he had guessed correctly—she would not dodge utter nonsense. “I ask again: who is Nerevar?”

Azura's finger traced a line in her book. “Indoril Nerevar is my champion.”

He waited for elaboration. It did not come. “And what has 'transpired' with Nerevar?” he persisted.

She turned the page. “He has died.”

Although he had known this was a possibility, he was genuinely surprised it was the answer. “You allowed your champion to die?”

Azura sighed. “Calm yourself, Mortal. Though they may die, death is not the end for a Prince's Champion. Nerevar's spirit resides in Moonshadow until the day he is to return to Tamriel to fulfill my prophecy. Meridia's Umaril fell centuries ago and is reborn in the waters of the Colored Rooms. It is the way of things.”

“Merid—?” Miraak caught himself in frustration; he had just learned the names and they were already changing. “Then Herma-Mora saving my life was not what you would do?”

“Most of what Mora does is not what I would do,” said Azura. “We have our similarities, but on the whole, we are very different.”

“Why did he save me, then?” he asked. “If on death, my soul is bound for Apocrypha instead of Sovngarde, what purpose is served by saving my life?”

She turned her head just enough to look at him with both eyes, her lids heavy and brows curving up.

“You know the answer to that one already, Mortal,” was her reply.

Then it would have to be something he did not need to read about to know. Something he had known from the beginning.

On Tamriel, during his rebellion, he had slain well over thirty dragons and absorbed their souls. It occurred to him that he did not know what would happen to those souls upon his death.

Was he saved not for his sake, but for what he carried within him? Was his value to Mora not in what he did, but what he was?

Miraak shut the book in his hands hard enough to send out a cloud of dust from its pages.

⁂

Though Apocrypha itself was ever-changing, its residents were less mercurial. The shapes unseen of the Forest had, in the time of the Ocean, coalesced into floating tentacled forms with many arms. Even these were only occasional—when not reading, they would often slip back into formlessness, as if visible existence was an unwanted chore.

When the waters lowered, a few of them shed most of their tentacles for a shambling form partially resembling a man. As he watched them shuffle along on overly long legs, Miraak wondered if they had modeled their shape upon him, or if they had gotten the idea from one of the less fortunate visitors to Apocrypha.

He was usually not fortunate enough himself to find those visitors before they had met their fate. Often the only indication he would have would be a sight he could only compare to a funeral procession: the many-armed floating along in even rows behind one carrying a single, solitary urn, always silently heading to the same endless corridor of lapis pedestals.

He had followed, once, at what seemed to be a safe distance. He had watched as they slowly made their way down what felt like miles of corridor to an empty pedestal and placed the urn upon it. Then, in perfect unison, they turned toward Miraak and stared. They did not approach, and did not attack, but they made it known anyway that his presence was not welcome.

He knew, he could _feel_ , what each one of those urns was. Something ancient in his bones would always recognize it. His first reaction was disgust; the disgust eventually left him. He came back to the corridor another time when there was no procession, and sat at its entrance on a pile of books. It was not like being back among other men on Nirn again, but it was closer than the vast black ocean ever was.

As if by the will of Mora himself, this was the time he was fortunate enough to find a visitor intact. More specifically: a man in tattered robes bolted past him down the transept, followed closely behind by the familiar sight of a shuffling man-like form, moving far faster than he’d ever seen them move before.

Miraak leapt from his seat, sending books flying, and started running after them. Even that wasn’t fast enough—he had to Shout himself forward in great spurts, running to catch his breath until he could Shout again.

The shambler was more clever than it appeared, using the sound of its own heavy footfalls to steer its prey away from other paths and into a dead-end corridor. By the time the man seemed to realize his mistake, he was cowering in a pile of books, the only exit blocked by the towering figure as it advanced on him.

Miraak caught up with enough time to Shout himself ethereal, run through the creature, and spin back around to face it.

“This one is mine,” he said, staff raised in defiance as he returned to solid physicality.

It glared at Miraak in irritated silence—they could speak, and he knew they could speak, but they never willingly did so in his presence—before it heaved a great sigh and turned around, dragging its feet as it ambled down the corridor and out of sight.

Satisfied, Miraak turned back to check on the man behind him. He was breathing heavily, almost panting, with tears pouring freely out of wide, staring eyes.

“Do not be afraid,” said Miraak, extending his free hand to the man. “You are under my protection now.”

The man recoiled from the offered hand, scrambling backwards on his heels. Sounds that barely resembled words fell from his mouth in a pleading stream, and his eyes never moved once from Miraak's mask.

Miraak sighed. On Nirn, he would probably have already passed out from terror, which would help matters quite a bit, but in Apocrypha, there could be no such respite. Even Miraak was beginning to forget what it had been like, exactly, to lie down at the end of a long day and simply _let go_.

He took a deep breath, trying to summon in his mind a memory from so long ago—birds singing in the rosy haze of sunrise, mist gliding down the mountainside, the smell of grass wet with dew—and to draw the memory into his throat to Shout forward.

The man went silent. His limbs slackened; his eyelids grew heavy; his breath fell slow and even. Miraak offered his hand again. The man took it, and Miraak pulled him to his feet. He stumbled about like a drunk, so Miraak kept holding his hand, and wrapped his other arm around his back to steady him.

“It will wear off in time,” he told him. “You left me no other choice. Indulging in terror without control will kill you here.”

"Sorry," said the man, languidly. "It's just that you look like one of them."

A sudden excessive awareness of his own skin passed through him at this. “I… look like one of them?”

“Yes, like a Seeker,” the man said. “But I suppose that's just the mask.”

Miraak looked down, across the man, at the staff in his own hand. It had never left his sight in all his time in Apocrypha, and yet for the first time, he noticed the jaw of its dragon head was grossly dislocated, pulled forward far beyond the muzzle, with the scales of its neck stretching out into long, tapering shapes that had no place on a dragon.

He sternly reminded himself of what he had just said about indulging in terror, and forced himself to look forward as he began to guide his stumbling guest toward the closest thing that could pass for a safe corner of Apocrypha.

⁂

The man said his name was Morian Zenas, and that he was something called a Professor of Transliminal Studies at something called the Arcane University. He seemed perplexed when Miraak did not know what this was.

“The headquarters of the Mages Guild,” said Morian, gesturing wildly with his hands, as if this would make his meaning more apparent. “Surely you’ve heard of it!”

“I have read enough in passing to know that a guild for mages exists,” said Miraak. “I know nothing else of it.” He tilted his head inquisitively. “Tell me. Where is this University of yours?”

“City Isle,” replied Morian. He paused, a thoughtful look in his eyes, and then added: “In Cyrodiil.”

“Ah,” said Miraak at this addition, pleased to hear a semi-familiar name. “Is Cyrod called Cyrodiil now?”

Morian stared at him incredulously. “It hasn’t been called Cyrod since the time of the Ayleids. How long have you been here?”

He said nothing in response to this. His gaze had dropped down to his gloved hands, and every time he saw them now, he couldn’t help but notice the warping and elongation of the scales on the wrists. Given his staff, and what Morian had said about his mask—

The last time he had even _seen_ his own mask, he had been in Tamriel. He never took it off in Apocrypha, not even for an instant. It was a piece of armor, after all, and it had never occurred to him that it could _change_.

“Sorry,” said Morian, quietly. “That was very rude of me to demand. I haven’t the slightest idea how much time has passed here since I arrived, myself.” He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. “I think it’s been weeks, but without needing to eat, without having to sleep, without sun or moons or stars, how do you mark the time?”

“I don’t,” said Miraak, and this was the truth. He wasn’t even certain how long the two of them had been sitting in this alcove behind a makeshift wall of books. It made no difference in the end whether it had been minutes, hours, days, or longer, so he would spare himself the headache and simply let it be.

The silence that followed stretched on for far too long. Miraak suspected this was his fault. He was supposed to elaborate. There wasn't any point to elaborating. He was supposed to be reassuring. There wasn't much reassurance he could give.

There was only one thing he could think of, and it was probably a terrible idea.

“Perhaps this is foolish of me,” began Miraak, slowly, and Morian's wandering gaze suddenly shot back to him. It was distracting; he swallowed and continued. “But there is something you could aid me with, if you could remain calm.”

“I certainly owe you as much,” said Morian. “You saved my life. What do you need me to do?”

“You spoke of my mask, earlier,” he said. “That it looked like a ‘Seeker’.”

Morian nodded. “It does, quite a bit. Isn’t it meant to?”

Miraak shook his head. “I was a _sonaak_ , a… dragon priest. My mask bore tusks, as a sign of my station, but it never resembled anything from this place.”

The mage's eyes widened with realization. “Oh! Oh _dear_. Then you're worried—”

“Yes,” he said, sternly.

Morian chewed his lip in thought on this. It was a curiously childish gesture from a man of his age. He looked old enough to be the father of young men, though how much of that apparent age had been gained from trying to survive Apocrypha was impossible to say.

“I’ll try my best,” said Morian, finally. “If I do react unpleasantly, please don’t take it personally.”

Miraak's only response was to reach up to remove his hood. He was surprised to feel that somehow his mask's transformation had caused it to extend upwards and back over the hood. This prompted the mildly terrifying thought that it could have warped to completely wrap around his head, sealing it in, but more feeling around proved this to be untrue. He had to lift and pull at his hood from the sides rather than with one hand from the front, but it worked well enough, and the straps holding the mask in place felt unchanged. Even the knot felt like the one he was used to tying, and unraveling it came easily, even with gloved hands.

He lowered it to his lap, tracing his fingers over its surface and turning it to look at it for the first time. It did look like one of the many-armed ones. Seekers. Its tusks had become long tentacles; decorative elements of the forehead had sprouted them as well. Only the tiniest sliver of resemblance to its original form remained.

It made him afraid to look up at Morian's expression. He needed to know, but he also didn't want to know. It felt like if it wasn't confirmed, it wasn't true.

Except he knew that was not how it worked. The truth existed first. Not knowing might feel safer than knowing a horrible truth, but it would not change reality.

He looked up to meet Morian's gaze. Morian looked concerned.

“What do you see?” asked Miraak.

“You’re covered in scars,” he said, gesturing with a hand over his own face. “All along here, it's just—”

He heaved a sigh of relief, almost hard enough to feel dizzy. “Those are burn scars. They were already there.”

“Ah,” said Morian, awkwardly. “Then I suppose… you look fine enough? You’re so very pale, but I gathered you’re a Nord, and there's no sun here, so that's probably also normal.”

Out of raw habit, Miraak turned the mask around and began to put it back on. He stopped himself when he realized what he was doing. They weren’t moving. He wasn’t about to enter battle. There wasn’t any point.

He lowered the mask back down and looked at it again.

“It’s strange,” he said, half to himself, as he turned it around in his hands. “I always hated this mask, but to see it changed like this is... unnerving.”

Morian cocked his head like a surprised bird. “You hated it? But you were a dragon priest—isn’t the mask a symbol of your power and respect?”

“For most, it was,” said Miraak. “It was a position they sought out and worked hard for years to accomplish. Fate decreed a different path for me. I was taken in as an acolyte before I had learned to walk. I was ordained before I needed to shave.”

“Ah, I see,” said the mage with a nod. “So for you, it was not empowering.”

He returned the nod, staring at the mask. “A priest’s mask is his face. It is never to be taken off except in private, in the presence of other priests and acolytes. In all other places, he is not a man anymore, but a representative of the _dov_.”

“That sounds a bit excessive,” said Morian. “No matter what you do, a man is going to be a man.”

“Dragons are not known for having realistic expectations,” replied Miraak, “and the eternal have no concept of youth.” His gaze lifted slightly, eyes carefully assessing the mage. “Did you do anything foolish when you were young?”

“What, me?” He chuckled slightly. “No, no, I’m afraid I was very boring. No sowing of wild oats. I had my nose in a book most of the time. I would have loved it here, if not for all the Daedra trying to kill me.”

“Apocrypha is not kind to those who arrive without permission,” he said. “There are many who would try to steal Mora's secrets without making a fair trade.” He looked Morian over a second time. “Though you do not strike me as a thief.”

“Absolutely not,” said Morian, sounding almost insulted. “I put a great deal of effort into researching the planes of Oblivion I would be visiting. Not merely the writings of mortals, either—I know too well how much of _that_ is pure hogwash.” He sighed. “I also know Daedra will sometimes lie for their own reasons even in a fair and respectful interview, but sufficient numbers will usually sort that out. Everything was as I expected until Apocrypha. I can't even _leave_. The method I used to leave the other planes suddenly stopped working.”

Miraak furrowed his brow. “How many planes did you visit?”

“Four,” he said, and began to count them off the fingers of one hand: “Moonshadow, Ashpit, Coldharbour, and Quagmire. I was prepared for Coldharbour to be the hardest to leave, and yet, it posed no problem at all. In Moonshadow, I even had an audience with Azura herself.”

Miraak had only read of these realms himself, and they were, of course, the writings of mortals, which Morian had just dismissed as useless. Still, there was something genuinely unsettling about this.

“Azura is not an uncommon visitor to Apocrypha,” he said. “It seems she is a trusted enough ally that she is allowed to come and go freely. If you were welcome enough in Moonshadow to have an audience, it's strange that you would be this unwelcome here. Did Azura say anything unusual to you?”

Morian shook his head. “Nothing beyond the surreal mien of Princes. She did tell me a prophecy, that her champion Nerevar would be reborn and sent to Morrowind as a prisoner, where he will...” He paused, chewing his lip again. “How did she put it? ‘He will go to Red Mountain and end the dream.’ Apparently.”

Nerevar again. For a person Miraak had never met, he seemed inescapable. “What does Nerevar have to do with your travels?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell,” said Morian. “Yet she seemed to believe this was something I needed to know before moving on.”

Miraak considered this for a moment. He had an idea, and selfishly enough, he was tempted to keep it to himself. To keep Morian in Apocrypha, like a dragon sitting on its hoard. He shook his head to dismiss the thought.

“Azura may be the solution, then,” he said, returning the mask to his face and tying it in back. “If we can find her during her next visit, she can take you with her when she returns to Moonshadow, and from there, you should be able to leave for Nirn.” He stood up, and gestured for Morian to follow. “Come. The sooner we start, the more ground we can cover.”

The mage squinted at him with mild confusion.

“If we stay here,” said Miraak, “we will not find Azura unless she comes to us. If we leave here, our chances of finding her will be significantly better. Do not worry about the risk. I will do my best to keep you safe.”

“It’s a long shot,” said Morian, rising to his feet, “but I suppose you would know best.”

Miraak did not, in fact, know best, but it was better than nothing.

⁂

Their wandering of Apocrypha was without goals or anything resembling a set direction, but Miraak treated it as if it was a real journey with a route and a final destination. He kept their movement at a steady pacing, taking breaks at what felt like regular intervals even if there was no way to know the actual time spent walking the corridors.

It was entirely unnecessary, frivolous, and surprisingly grounding. Miraak had expected that some kind of structure would help Morian stay calm. He hadn’t realized how much self-comfort it would provide, as well.

“I wish I knew, at least, how much time has passed in Tamriel,” said Morian, as they set out again from a makeshift encampment among the stacks. “I keep thinking of this terrible thing I read that’s almost certainly not true, it’s probably Gor Felim under another pseudonym—”

“I don’t know who that is,” said Miraak.

“Marobar Sul? Ancient Tales of the Dwemer?” His eyes searched Miraak’s face for some sign of recognition, and his shoulders dipped with resignation when he found none. “I never thought I’d be disappointed to find someone who was unfamiliar with the work of a hack. For a man trapped in a library, you don’t seem to read very much.”

“I read as much as I need to,” replied Miraak, trying his best to keep an edge out of his voice. “But I cannot read everything in Apocrypha, and I will not waste my life trying to.”

“Fair enough,” said Morian as they began to walk. “It is an infinite library, isn’t it? Or at least as close to infinite as Hermaeus Mora can manage.” He stretched, bringing his arms up behind his head. “Anyway. The tale, it’s almost certainly a reworked peasant tale from the Nibenay Valley of some variety. A beautiful Winged Twilight approached a warrior of—I think he made up a fictional Companion of Ysgramor or something like that. Anyway, she took him back with her to Moonshadow to live with her as her lover. They lived in bliss in Moonshadow for three centuries without growing old, becoming sick, or needing for much of anything.”

“I fail to see how this is a terrible thing,” said Miraak, with no change in his stride.

“I’m getting to that part,” said Morian. “As happy as the warrior was, he missed Skyrim and wanted to visit it again. His Daedric lover understood his wish, so she placed him on a lesser Daedra in the form of a white horse and opened a portal, warning him never to set foot on the earth, or else he would never be able to return. So of course he visited Skyrim, everything was Changed For The Worse because now is always terrible compared to the Good Old Days, and he started to head back, but on his way he decided to bend down to try to help some men attempting to lift a heavy rock. While on a horse. He fell and hit the ground and instantly shriveled with the age of three hundred years.”

Miraak shook his head. “This is definitely not a tale told by a Nord. If he knew he had been in Moonshadow for three hundred years, and his lover told him not to touch the ground, why would he risk his life for a rock?”

“Because Gor Felim liked to write people doing incredibly stupid things. Usually to make someone else look smarter by comparison.” He leaned on Miraak’s staff, which he’d been lent for self-defense, but was mainly using as a walking stick. “And yet, even though _I know_ it’s a lot of bunkum, I can’t shake the terrifying thought that I might make my way back to Tamriel, and then the instant I arrive, I die.”

“You will probably not be killed by the mere act of returning to Nirn,” said Miraak, with more certainty in his voice than he actually possessed. “It is true, however, that if you stay in Apocrypha, you will never grow older or become sick, and you will be able to seek all the secrets that Mora possesses for eternity. For some, this is their idea of paradise. You even said yourself that you would have loved it when you were young.”

“When I was young, yes,” said Morian. “When knowledge itself was its own reward, and I was always annoyed by the constant interruptions of my studies by the need to eat, or sleep, or relieve myself, or what have you.” He quickened his pace slightly to try and keep up with Miraak’s steady progress. “It’s ironic how much I didn’t appreciate until I was too old to enjoy the things I had no interest in.”

“Those who have a choice often do not seem to realize that they are making it.”

The mage sighed. “Well, it’s as they say: youth is wasted on the young.”

“The choice you would make now is not what you chose then,” said Miraak, “but if it was what you truly wanted at the time, it was not a waste. You were a different person. Your needs and wants were different. Perhaps if you chose at that time what you would wish for now, it would have brought you misery.”

“That’s the problem with ‘what if’, isn’t it? It’s easy to fall into, but there’s no knowing what would have really happened, in the end.” Morian stopped at a gap in the stacks, his eyes scanning the horizon of the black sea as if it might hold some sign of the Lady of Twilight. It held nothing but great spires of shelves rising from the depths and undulating arms descending from the swamp-green sky.

“I wish I could still hear Seif-ij, at least,” he said, wistfully.

Miraak stood beside him, but kept his gaze within the corridor, tilting his head to listen for the sound of dragging feet. “Seif-ij?”

“My assistant, Seif-ij Hidja,” said Morian. “A young Argonian, absurdly talented. When I was conducting my research interviews, I needed another master conjurer to help ensure everything went smoothly, and I ended up hiring someone far better than I deserved.”

“It sounds like you were close,” said Miraak.

“We were, though it came about originally by accident. It seems that when two conjurers work together in close proximity, they can develop the same kind of mental link a master conjurer forms with the summoned.” He shook his head. “We assumed that it would stay intact at any distance, since it’s the most basic connection between summoner and target, but shortly after I arrived in Apocrypha, his thoughts became hard to discern. Not long after that, I couldn’t hear him anymore.”

Miraak froze, though he didn’t intend to. His arms and legs seemed to stiffen on their own, against his will. “An interruption of a permanent conjurer’s bond?”

“Yes,” said Morian. “Do you have any idea what could cause that?”

“As far as I know,” he said, hesitantly, “that would require the direct intervention of Hermaeus Mora himself.”

The mage stared at him. “That makes no sense. I’ve done nothing to offend Hermaeus Mora. Divayth assured me—” He paused. His eyes gradually widened as an idea seemed to crawl up his neck and in one ear, ending in a shudder. “Oh, _Divayth_. Miraak, I’ve been a fool.”

“I don’t understand,” said Miraak, cautiously stepping closer. “Who is Divayth?”

“Divayth Fyr is a very old Dunmer sorcerer,” said Morian. “Seif-ij and I sought his aid in finding a relatively safe Door to Oblivion.” He held Miraak’s staff with both hands in a shaking, white-knuckled grip. “He was also a rival. For the affections of a dear friend.”

“Ah.” Miraak had lifted a hand to touch the mage’s back, but thought better of it, and lowered his hand again. “Not an honorable rival, then, I assume.”

“Telvanni do not _do_ honor,” he growled. “I should have listened to Alfidia. I should’ve stayed behind with her. I shouldn’t have believed Divayth when he said he accepted her choice. He said he had moved on, and I was stupid enough to believe him!”

Miraak watched him quake with anger and grief, and even though they were standing right next to each other, it felt as though Morian was thousands of miles away. Something in the pit of his stomach said that he could not be touched, as if reaching out to the mage as he was would result in Miraak’s hands passing through an illusion made of smoke.

“This changes nothing,” said Miraak, which was not true, but if he said it with enough confidence, perhaps Morian would believe it. “If you are trapped here by the power of one Daedric Prince, then you should be able to leave through the power of another.”

“You said she’s an ally of Hermaeus Mora,” said Morian, his eyes cast downward. “She would never act in violation of his will in his own personal plane of Oblivion.”

“Mora’s ways are not Azura’s ways,” replied Miraak. “On the whole, they are very different. She even told me so, herself.”

He shook his head. “It’s a fool’s errand. I’m never getting out of here. It’s just a matter of time before—”

Morian stopped mid-sentence as he suddenly found Miraak’s mask fractions of an inch from the end of his nose.

“You are under my protection,” said Miraak, sternly. “As long as you are in Apocrypha, I will allow no harm to come to you. We will find Azura, and if she cannot help, we will find another way to return you to Tamriel. That is the only inevitability here.”

He swallowed hard, staring at the half-lidded eye holes of the mask, and nodded. “You’re right. I shouldn’t give up. There has to be a way.”

Miraak was not sure that there was any hope once Mora’s will was directly involved, but he knew that if Morian despaired, it would not be long before he would be watching another procession of Seekers in the corridor of urns. He needed to accept his fate gradually. He needed time to come to grips with it. He needed a delusion to keep him going until he could.

He would allow Morian the luxury of denial.

⁂

“They taught you a song about _what?_ ” Morian was trying his very best to keep a straight face, or at least to remain seated on his stack of books, and failing at it.

“A mudcrab in a chamberpot,” said Miraak, impassively.

“I know drunk Nords are hardly known for wise decisions,” said Morian between snickers, “but what possessed them to try that?”

“They were curious about what it would sound like when I sang it.”

“And?” His cheeks were red from restrained laughter.

“It seems that anything I sing,” he said, “ends up sounding like a hymn. They were deeply amused.”

Morian was about to respond when he was interrupted by the sound of hundreds of books crashing, like half a spire had emptied itself out in one go. Their faces both snapped toward the wall of books they’d built up around their hiding spot, eyeing it uneasily.

“Stay here,” said Miraak, as he rose from his seat.

It did not take long to find the source of the disturbance. A robed woman stood in the midst of an alcove, all of its books swept from its shelves and fallen to the floor. Wind and lightning swirled around her as she shot a bolt at a Seeker. The spell did not connect; the Seeker vanished, and Miraak felt a faint but noticeable breeze pass by him on one side.

The woman swore, looking around for the Seeker, before her eyes landed on him. She slid into a defensive stance, sparks flaring up in her hands again. Miraak spread his arms wide, his free hand open, in a gesture he hoped would be clear enough.

“I am a man,” he added, in case it wasn’t.

She looked him up and down with suspicion, but relaxed her posture. Thick black locks of hair fell forward from a loose bun at the back of her head. She somehow managed to have both a fierce and dignified air to her, like a shieldmaiden on the battlefield.

“I know the mask looks like they do,” said Miraak, lowering his arms. “It is not by my choice. I am not allied with them.”

“Finally, someone sane in this dreadful place.” The woman dismissed the spells in her hands. “Have you seen a man?” she asked as she approached him, her dark eyes wild with intensity. “A mage, about sixty—”

“Alfidia,” said Miraak, half to himself, remembering a name Morian had said once.

She stopped, and took a step back. Suspicion had returned to her face again. “How do you know my name?”

“You are looking for Morian Zenas,” he replied. The widening of her eyes was all the answer he needed. “Come with me.”

A wave of relief went through Miraak when he saw the wall of books remained exactly as he had left it. Only after this wave did a thought occur to him, that he could have let her be—Alfidia could clearly take care of herself—and returned to Morian empty-handed, with a tale of a squabble among Lurkers or something similar.

It was an impossible temptation, completely against his nature, but it disturbed him anyway that he had even thought it at all.

The mage heaved a sigh of dissipating panic at the sight of Miraak’s return, and this turned to fumbling ebullience at the sight of Alfidia entering the alcove behind him. Morian fell off his pile of books trying to leap to his feet. She ran to help him up, and before he could even speak she had planted both hands over his ears and drawn him into a long, breathless kiss.

Miraak crossed his arms and stared out the exit. This was not a moment he was meant to witness, that much was clear.

“Alfidia,” he heard Morian gasp. “What are you doing here? It’s too dangerous here, it’s—”

“Of course it is, you old fool,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion. “I couldn’t just leave you here, damned to whatever fate Divayth hoped you would meet.”

“It’s true, then? Divayth did this?”

“I found the summoning ritual he used.” As she spoke, her tone shifted, becoming almost hollowed out. Empty. “‘In recompense, whatever price is named shall be met.’”

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” He sounded like a wounded animal, whimpering in pain. “Alfidia, you didn’t.”

“He told me that no mortal alive could give what he would demand to have you returned,” she said. “But I could pay the price he asked to allow me to share your fate, whatever it may be.”

Morian cried out loudly, almost a scream, and before Miraak had even realized it, he had rushed to his side, helping Alfidia to hold him upright as his legs gave out from under him.

“There is still hope,” he said, trying to soothe him. As he spoke, he realized he was mimicking the tone of voice that Ahzidal had always used with him when he would have nightmares as a child. “All is not lost. We will find Azura. She will set this right.”

Alfidia looked at Miraak, knitting her brow in concentration. “Azura, the Queen of Twilight? She visits this place?”

He nodded at her. “I have met her here before. We thought that if we could find her again, she could take Morian back with her to Moonshadow—”

“It’s hopeless,” the mage sobbed. “It was a long shot without Mora’s involvement. There’s not just one pact involved, there’s _two_ —”

“Morian,” said Alfidia, firmly. “Morian, who was it who always insisted that the Daedra cannot be categorized as a whole?”

He was unable to answer her at first, only shaking his head as he tried to hold back tears.

“Morian,” she said again, her dark eyes fixed on his face, as if they had the strength to hold him up, all on their own.

“I did,” said Morian, regaining some of his composure. “The only constant across Oblivion is change. Even a random pair of mortals from different nations of Tamriel will have more in common than a random pair of Daedra from different planes.”

“That should apply to Daedric Princes as much as it does to any other Daedra, shouldn’t it?” She quickly shot Miraak a glance before returning her gaze to Morian’s face. “Then there’s no reason to assume Azura would do nothing to help. We can only know if we find her first.”

She had reminded him of a shieldmaiden before, but now she seemed almost like a dragon herself, wielding words as her weapon, shaping the world before her with the power of her will. A woman after his own heart, Miraak acknowledged with a nod. Not the worst person to spend an eternity in Apocrypha with.

⁂

Before Morian and Alfidia, it had never seemed possible to Miraak that there would be not just one other mortal in Apocrypha beside him, but two. If the idea had ever occurred to him, it would have been as a longed-for fantasy. Three people could be a team, helping to support each other, talking to each other to pass the time. If anyone ran out of things to say, three allowed for the luxury of taking a break, for one person to just listen to the other two have a conversation, instead of one person monologuing to a wordless companion, or worse—an awkward silence broken only by the hollow wind whistling through the spires and corridors.

Once Morian had calmed down, though, the triad settled into a pattern: Morian and Alfidia had a hundred things to catch up on, a thousand well-established understandings and shared memories, and Miraak felt like a chaperone assigned by a paranoid father.

He’d met a few in his time, often a household servant standing behind a pair of blushing young nobles, a pained look on her face as he would guide the bride and groom through their expected roles in the wedding-to-come. When he had shadowed Ahzidal in the same role, the older _sonaak_ always had a knack for saying the right thing to them, an almost magical ability to make a seemingly unrelated off-the-cuff remark that made pinched eyebrows relax and tight-lipped mouths loosen with relief. Miraak was terrible at it; it was usually better for him to say nothing at all. And now he was the tight-lipped servant, of a sort.

He tried to sit on the other end of the alcove from them when they spoke to each other softly, or in whispers, or when they silently held hands. Leaving them completely alone wasn’t an option, though he wished it was. It felt like he was in the way, and if he could have just left them where they were for a few hours, it probably wouldn’t have been so terrible.

Miraak threw himself into a new translation of an ancient Ayleid tome of Alteration magic—he had tried to read the original in Ayleidoon before, but it had seemed impenetrable. As it turned out, even he had something to learn from an archeologist’s translation into Cyrodilic. Idioms he had taken literally were given lavish attention in the gloss, and historical context he never had was elaborated on at length in copious endnotes. He had to have a finger in the back of the book at all times to flip to and from the notes repeatedly, but at least he was starting to get a sense of how it worked.

Not that he would ever have reason to cast a waterbreathing spell, if his life continued in the future as it had so far. He doubted that drowning was the worst fate that could befall him if he ever entered the depths of the black sea. That assumed, of course, that the sea was even water to begin with. No plane of Oblivion ever carried such simple guarantees.

In spite of himself, his attention was torn away from the theory behind Candlelight pathfinding by a sound that he could have mistaken for the coo of a dove, were he not in Apocrypha, which had no doves. He had intentionally positioned himself with no line of sight to Morian and Alfidia, and still he heard the sound of embarrassed murmurs.

With a sigh, he closed his book, set it down, and rose from his seat. Though they were startled by the sight of him, he kept his shoulders back as he walked over to them, his stance as dignified as he could manage: the experienced _sonaak_ setting the newlyweds at peace, not the servant chaperone hovering behind them.

“At least one of you must know how to cast Magelight,” he said to them.

“Of course,” said Morian, blinking with mild confusion. “It’s a very basic spell. Most apprentices learn it these days.”

“Good,” said Miraak. He pointed to a spot far up one of the bookshelves of the alcove, significantly higher than the makeshift wall of books. “Are you able to make that shelf with it? It does not have to be exact.”

Before Morian could respond, Alfidia had already cast the spell with a silent flick of her wrist, sending a ball of light floating up above them and coming to rest on the shelf.

“Even better.” He paused, looking between the two of them. “That can be the signal.”

Understanding quickly washed over Alfidia’s face. Morian still looked confused. “The signal for what?” he asked.

“I’m going to leave the two of you here,” said Miraak, “and I am going to go far enough away that the two of you can have time to yourselves. I will stay close enough to see that shelf. When it is fine for me to return, or if you need me to return sooner, cast Magelight on it.”

Despite his age, Morian’s eyes widened and he turned a bright shade of red. Alfidia just looked relieved.

It was a much better arrangement, on the whole, for when they would rest between searches. It put an end to feeling like an unwanted chaperone, an end to hushed whispers and furtive hand-holding. When he would see the light and return to their encampment, the only sign of anything that had taken place in his absence was Morian wringing his hands and trying too hard to leap back into normal conversation. Miraak and Alfidia ignored his awkwardness, and eventually he managed to relax and settle into this as a completely routine, ordinary thing.

He asked them once about Argonians—there had been one among the Five Hundred Companions, he had been told as a child, but he had never actually _met_ one—and Morian told him at length about Seif-ij Hidja, his talent in conjuration, his surprising skill in cooking, the contrast between his reluctance to speak out loud in Cyrodilic and the rambling, poetic depths of his thoughts in his native tongue across the conjurer’s bond. Miraak was reasonably sure he had meant, at least at the start, to move from the personal to the general, from the individual to the culture as a whole, but at this point Morian fell silent and lowered his gaze to the ground. Alfidia watched him as he spoke, with a bittersweet look on her face.

In spite of himself and his own knowledge, he was starting to hope that they would find Azura, and that she would hold the solution after all.

⁂

He was leaning against a shelf, rifling through an almanac of star charts while facing the wall of books they had assembled around their latest encampment, when he thought he heard a sound. He raised his head and turned it until he could hear the sound more easily. Faint sobbing. It did not sound like Morian or Alfidia, though admittedly he had never heard Alfidia cry.

It sounded like a child.

Miraak closed the book and slid it back into the bookshelf.

He had to walk slowly and softly, rolling along the soles of his boots from heel to tip, as he listened for the crying and tried to find its direction. There was a moment when it stopped briefly, and he froze mid-step. About a minute passed with only the sound of the wind, and then he heard gasps, the kind that followed trying to hold one’s breath. The sobbing resumed soon enough.

One hand was gripping his staff hard enough to shake, he realized, and his free hand had gravitated to his sword’s hilt.

He looked back to the alcove where Morian and Alfidia were. He could still see the wall of books, and shadows deep in the recesses of the designated shelf.

Miraak followed the sound further down the corridor. Every few steps he stopped and checked over his shoulder to make sure the barrier and the shelf were still in plain view. The wall was still there, the shelf remained unlit, and the sound of crying was getting louder as he progressed. It was muffled, still quiet compared to the wind, like it came from inside a container, or behind several thick walls.

He reached a crossing of two corridors, and he could hear the crying coming clearly down this new corridor, off to his left. It sounded very close, as if it came from a chamber with an entrance not far from the crossing, but he hesitated. He glanced back at the alcove, far in the distance. He would not be able to see it if he took this branch.

He’d have to move quickly. Go in, look around, go back to the crossing. If the alcove looked all right, he could try a second time. More times than that, perhaps, but he would have to be fast.

Miraak held his breath for a moment, listening to make sure he had the right direction. Then he ran for the chamber.

Once he was in, he stopped. He listened for the crying. Nothing. He turned to leave, and heard a sniffle.

He tilted his head, listening for the sound of breathing. There—up a ramp, behind a pillar. He could see the smallest amount of movement in the shadows. Someone was hiding behind it. He approached cautiously, keeping his footsteps as soft as he could manage.

Miraak made his way up the ramp, and carefully circled around.

Behind the pillar, on the floor, “sat” one of the many-armed ones. A Seeker. Its arms were wrapped around its chest, as if embracing itself. At Miraak’s approach, it turned what passed for its head to look at him. When their eyes met, it let out a scream—a child’s shriek of terror—as it rose from the ground into the air behind the pillar. Its arms unfurled widely, hands spread far apart, as it began to hover towards him, letting out ear-shattering cries in a language Miraak did not understand.

Miraak stared at the Seeker, his mouth agape behind the mask. He had no idea what to make of this. If it was attacking him, it should have done so already. If it was frightened, it had every opportunity to flee. It leaned in before his face, not touching him, but screaming until he could hear nothing else. Every aspect of its cries sounded like begging for help—or for mercy—in a child’s voice.

And then, just as suddenly, it vanished, and the screaming went with it. In its place, he thought he heard something that he could only describe as a sticky, wet-sounding chuckle.

His stomach turned at the sound of it. He stumbled as he belted out of the chamber, back the way he came.

When he reached the crossing and turned into the original corridor, he saw the collapsed wall of books in the alcove, and he knew he was too late. He knew what it meant, he knew he did not need to see beyond that, and yet, he found himself unable to stop. It was like he was pulled forward on a chain by his own desperate hope that he would be wrong, that there was still time—

What remained of them removed all doubt. He stood in the alcove for several minutes, unable to tear his eyes away. It was unrecognizable even as violence. Their arms were clasped around each other in a terrified embrace. Their clothes laid discarded beside them, and their skin bore no blemishes, not even the pallor of the dead. Both of their heads had opened like a star, bone and flesh peeling back like the petals of a lily opening in the morning sun.

The blood that pooled at the bottom of each empty skull glistened, as if it was still freshly bleeding.

He burned the bodies where they lay, without separating them. There was nowhere to bury them. There was nowhere to put their ashes and bones, either. He wrapped the bones in their robes, together, as if they were one corpse, and placed it in an empty pod beside some scrolls. He had no idea what rites either one of them would want observed. Something bitter within him suggested the rites of the fox. He thought of the song of the fox falling upon the hare before Ysgramor in the Frostwood. The fox was Shor; the hare, Herma-Mora.

If Mora had been inclined to set down rules to obey in Apocrypha, he’d neglected to elaborate on what they were. He had only himself to blame if a Song of Shor was unacceptable heresy.

Miraak performed the rites as best he could with what he had. It was entirely uneventful. The sky did not open up. The ground did not shake. The low voice of his supposed master was as absent as it ever was.

“A funeral serves two purposes,” Ahzidal had once told him. “It is in service of the dead, obviously, but it is also in service of those who survive them. The dead need to be honored, not comforted. The living need both honor and comfort, and more besides.”

It was not much honor and even less comfort, but it was more than if he had left them there to rot.

⁂

It was, of course, when Miraak was no longer looking for Azura that he finally found her.

She was wearing a long gown of twilight blue, flowing in sheets from her shoulders to her ankles. She still wore a crown of white roses, perhaps even the same one as before, but her hair was now a dark brown that better suited her ashen skin. There was a softness in her eyes when she turned to look at him, and a subtle upward curve to the corners of her lips as Miraak approached her, leaning on his staff.

“Mora’s Champion,” said Azura, with a nod of acknowledgement. “I trust that you are well.”

“No,” he said, wearily. “I am not.”

Miraak had no patience left for games, and no strength left for anger. All he had was a great hole ringed with apathy. Azura raised an eyebrow at his response, but it seemed, somehow, that it was primarily surprise at being told the truth so bluntly.

“It seems you are dissatisfied with your service,” she said, raising a hand to her cheek.

“This is no service,” he said. He made no effort to hide the bitterness in his voice. “I go centuries without speaking to a soul. Mora does not call on me. He does not ask anything of me. I hold no sway over his servants or their actions, and any visitor to this place either leaves quickly or becomes a part of his collection. If I had known this would be the life of a Prince’s Champion, I would have had no part in it.”

Azura’s hand slowly gravitated to rest at her chin, knuckles before her lips, the other hand hovering beneath her elbow. She gave no reply, but looked at him with a serious expression, its emotion hard to identify. There was something sharp, gimlet-like, to her eyes.

“At least your Nerevar has a prophecy to look forward to,” said Miraak, sighing. “How long is it until he is reborn, to go to Red Mountain to end the dream?”

The subtle smile returned to her face. “Nerevar has already been reborn,” she said, her hand opening, fingers unfurling as she let it fall. “The dream is ended, as it was fated to.”

“So soon? He waited such a long time, and now his time has already passed.” Miraak shook his head, and then turned to stare out across the ink-black seas of Apocrypha. “How long until you call on him again, then?”

“There is no need,” said Azura. “He has achieved his destiny. All fates have been sealed and all sins have been redeemed. He is free now to do as he will.”

He turned back to gawk at her, thoroughly disbelieving. “Free? To do as he will?”

She nodded, and her smile grew.

“You certainly do not do things as Mora does,” said Miraak. “You not only grant your Champion a prophecy to fulfill—you reward him, as well, with the rest of a mortal lifespan to live as he sees fit.”

“He may have more than a mortal lifespan, if he chooses,” replied Azura. “‘Neither blight nor age can harm him.’ This, too, was part of the prophecy he set out to fulfill.”

Miraak found himself unable to speak.

The amount of the time that had passed since their first meeting felt vast, incomprehensible. It was a time when he was still ignorant enough to not know of any Daedric Princes beyond Hermaeus Mora, when he did not yet know enough to know that what had seemed like his only path to freedom was merely the door to another prison.

Now he knew, too, that it never had to be this way. He could have chosen differently, if only he had known.

“Why was I born to this fate?” he asked her. “Was it all decided from the beginning? Was I destined to never be anything more than the centerpiece of a prized collection?”

She tilted her head curiously, the smile softening as her eyes looked him up and down. It seemed almost as though she could see through the mask and was examining his expression for something, though he had no idea what.

“You have forgotten what I told you before, haven’t you, Mortal?” She shook her head and sighed gently—itself a surreal thing to hear from the mouth of the Lady of Dusk. “You serve but one of many, and what he and Fate have in store for you is yet to be decided. That remains as true now as it did then.”

“What he and Fate have in store for me,” repeated Miraak. “What more can Fate have in store for me than this?”

“You know the answer to that question, Mortal,” said Azura, and for the briefest moment, it seemed almost as if she had not addressed him merely as “mortal”, but had called him by name.

Perhaps he was finally starting to go mad.

“You said that before, as well,” he said, distantly.

“Apocrypha may be the final resting place of all knowledge, but it is not its birthplace. Everything that Mora has gathered here has come from somewhere else. It has its uses, but it should not be regarded as more than what it is.” She raised her arms with a sweeping motion, as if she was throwing stars into the whirling vortex of Apocrypha’s sky. “You do not need me to tell you what Fate you were meant to have, just as you do not need me to tell you that your voice holds great power, or that dragon’s fire burns.”

She was right, and he knew she was right. He was a man born with the soul of a dragon. Any dragon would resent being forced to serve, and he was no different. The very power that Hermaeus Mora had dangled before him was tempting precisely because of the usefulness and the irony—the near poetic justice of it—but it also felt unfathomably disgusting to actually use. He could never explain why, if he ever had to.

And yet, it built upon a base of purity.

It built upon _Gol_. It was a word of the earth, of the ground, and also of connection between everything that walks upon the ground. It was a word of stones. It was a word that Miraak had realized could also be a Shout, and it was the Shout that he had used to awaken the Stones to the land and to one another.

One word added by Hermaeus Mora, and the Shout that linked obtained the power to warp minds. Two words, and even dragons could be bent as easily as the land connected to itself.

But _Gol_ did not stem from Mora, and without it, his additions would do nothing at all. The Prince had not granted him power he did not possess. There was something else that had always been there.

It was still there, he realized.

An impossibly thin, invisible thread between him and the stones. Fragile. Delicate. But not yet severed, despite all the time that had passed since he had last walked the earth of Solstheim.

“Thank you,” he found himself saying, and only then realized that Azura was no longer standing before him. He looked around, and the only remnant of her presence was her crown of white roses, laid upon a book on an otherwise empty shelf.

He picked up the rose crown and, for lack of a better place to put it, hooked it onto the top of his staff, letting it hang loosely between the distended jaw and what remained of the dragon’s head. The book had a plain red cover, with no label on its front or spine. When he opened it, he found that each page was dated and filled with handwritten notes, reminders, and observations. A journal.

“16 Last Seed,” the first page began. “My orders are to go to the town of Balmora in Vvardenfell District and report to a man named Caius Cosades.”

Miraak sat down on a nearby pile of books, and he began to read.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I actually came up with three separate endings for this and had a hard time deciding between them. (I still can't believe ESO lore books made Mi-Go brain cylinders canon. Because H.M. wasn't Lovecraftian enough as it is.)


End file.
